Equal of the Sun (7 page)

Saleem Khan, the master of palace protocol, entered the room. He possessed a voice that could tame an army of men. When he called, “Come to order!” the nobles fell silent. The chief mullah of Qazveen, whose black turban and robes were a sobering sight, walked slowly to the front of the hall and said a prayer for the dead. Every head in the room was bowed, as if weighed down by the uncertainty of the future.

After the prayer, Saleem Khan announced that a member of the Safavi dynasty wished to address us. The brown velvet curtain at the back of the platform stirred, and Haydar Mirza stepped out and stood in the Shah’s place. He was a slight young man with a nervous left eye that sometimes blinked too much. His fitted dark gray robe made him look even smaller than usual.

“Greetings to all the valued retainers of the Safavi court,” he began in a nasal voice that was too quiet to be heard well. “I give my thanks to you for attending upon us on this terrible day. Together we mourn the passing of my father, the fulcrum of the universe, even as we must turn our attention to what lies ahead. I call on you, great ones, to help me fulfill my father’s wishes for the future.”

Not even the fringes on the nobles’ sashes stirred as they waited to hear what he had in mind, but Haydar faltered.

“I request your indulgence for a moment,” he finally said before disappearing behind the curtain. We heard the high-pitched murmuring of a woman.

“That sounds like his mother,” I whispered to Balamani.

“If he can’t get through a meeting without her help, how does he expect to rule?” Balamani growled. Speculation filled the room until Saleem Khan’s voice boomed like a cannon, and the room quieted again.

Haydar emerged from the curtain too quickly, stumbling as if he had been pushed out. In his fist was the great golden sword of the Safavi dynasty, a beautifully crafted weapon encrusted with emeralds and rubies. The matching belt at his waist emanated rays of light when he moved.

“I hereby declare myself your new shah and demand your loyalty unto death!” Haydar shouted. “Those who serve me will be well rewarded; those who oppose me will pay the consequences.” He tried to thrust the sword high into the air, but the weapon was too heavy and his arm faltered midway.

The room exploded. Men leapt to their feet—some cried out in surprise, others shouted their support.

“Squelch your chatter!” commanded Saleem Khan, and gradually, the men settled down.

Haydar’s uncle on his mother’s side, Khakaberi Khan, asked to be recognized and stood up to help his nephew. “By what authority do you make this claim?”

Haydar handed the sword to Saleem Khan. From deep in his robe, he produced a rolled document and held it high for all to see.

“By my father’s will,” he said.

There was a low, powerful roar of disbelief.

Haydar unrolled the document and read it aloud. It named him as the only lawful successor to Tahmasb Shah and urged the courtiers to show loyalty to him as his father’s choice.

“I know the Shah’s writing better than my own,” challenged Mirza Shokhrollah, the treasury chief, whose long gray beard wagged when he spoke. “Let me see that document.”

“Here it is,” replied Haydar, waving the paper but refusing to relinquish it, so Shokhrollah had to approach the platform. After a few moments, he said in a surprised tone, “I would swear the writing was the Shah’s.”

Pari’s uncle, Shamkhal Cherkes, arose to have his say. “Everyone knows there is a lady in the royal palace whose handwriting resembles his,” he said, his index finger pointing heavenward for emphasis. “How can we be certain that this isn’t her handiwork?”

“Whether you doubt the writing or not, everyone knows my father’s seal,” Haydar said, pointing to the will. “Surely you don’t deny that this is it?”

“Any seal can be copied,” Shamkhal replied.

“This one is authentic, I swear,” said Haydar.

“In that case, let the Shah’s seal be brought forth for comparison,” insisted Shamkhal.

On occasion I had seen the Shah use the seal on his most important correspondence; he had worn it on a chain around his neck. Mirza Salman Jaberi, the head of the royal guilds, including the seal makers, was deputized by the treasury chief to visit the death room and make an impression of the Shah’s seal on a blank page.

Meanwhile, Saleem Khan announced that refreshments would be served. An army of servants rushed in with trays of hot cardamom tea, while others carried plates of nuts, dates, and sweetmeats. In the midst of the distraction, Sultanam’s chief eunuch, a broad-shouldered man with a thick neck, slipped out of the hall.

“What do you think?” I asked Balamani.

“I think Haydar is lying. If the Shah wanted him as heir, why didn’t he announce his choice before he died?”

“But that would have put Haydar at risk of assassination.”

Balamani snorted. “And he isn’t at risk now? He is like a lamb waiting to be skinned!”

While we were drinking our tea, Mirza Salman rushed back into the room with the seal soft on a fresh sheet of paper. He presented the paper to Saleem Khan, who unrolled it.

“I believe it is one and the same as the seal on the will,” he announced, and passed it around the room for all the men to see.

As the nobles were peering at the seal, Sultanam’s eunuch returned to the hall, panting lightly, and whispered some information into the ear of her brother, Amir Khan Mowsellu. His eyes widened, and before the eunuch had finished, he arose to speak.

“One of the exalted mothers of the palace visited the Shah early this morning after his death,” he announced. “As she was wailing over his body, she chanced to feel the seal at his throat and was surprised to feel the residue of soft wax in it. This suggests that the seal had been used recently, or possibly removed and returned.”

The room erupted into shouts once again. Saleem Khan demanded quiet and ordered that the guards of the Shah’s body be summoned. The first guard, who was almost as wide as he was tall, swore that the seal had not been removed during the night, and so did the others. But everyone knew that the guards could have been bribed, and the heat in the room began to intensify when there was no definitive answer about the validity of the will.

As squabbling broke out, Balamani looked on with disgust. “This is just what I feared. Each group lobbies for the man who will benefit his own people, not the man who will make the best shah.”

“And who would that be?”

“The great vizier Nizam al-Mulk wrote that after death, all rulers will be led before God with their hands tied. Only those who were just will be unshackled and delivered to heaven. The rest will be pitched straight into hell, their hands lashed eternally.”

“How fitting!”

I thought Mahmood would be a far better ruler than Haydar, although he was still too inexperienced to govern on his own. But I kept my opinions to myself; as Pari’s servant I must support her choice.

It took some time before Saleem was able to restore order by yelling in a voice so fierce it must have been heard outside the palace’s thick walls. He glared at the courtiers who would not be still, his face red with exertion and annoyance.

After everyone was quiet, Haydar spoke again. “I promise you all that my rule will shine with fairness to every tribe and to every man,” he proclaimed.

As evidence, he called on his servants to assist him, and they wheeled in carts filled with treasures. He reached into a cart and began passing out gifts. Amir Khan Mowsellu received a solid silver samovar, so finely engraved it was impossible to imagine using it for something as ordinary as tea. Mirza Salman took possession of two large blue and white porcelain vases from China. Other members of the court received silk robes of honor, so valuable they would be worn only on the most formal of occasions. Gifts piled up beside each nobleman until the room resembled a bazaar.

“He is robbing the treasury before it is his!” Shamkhal Cherkes charged in a loud whisper.

But as the gifts were distributed, the mood in the room softened while each nobleman contemplated his good fortune.

“Good courtiers, I ask you again: May I have your support?” Haydar sounded more confident than before.

How dismaying that even rich men can be swayed by trinkets!

“You have mine,” said Hossein Beyg, the leader of the Ostajlu. He was joined by a chorus of voices, although most of the men did not identify themselves. Everyone knew the risks of supporting the wrong side.

A messenger entered the room and spoke in secret to Saleem, who interrupted the proceedings to make an announcement: “My good men, because of the events of this day, I have been informed by the chief of the royal bodyguard that the guards stationed outside the palace gates have refused to disperse until the succession has been resolved. No one will be permitted to enter or to exit the grounds.”

Haydar stepped back onto the platform and glanced around him like an onager facing a circle of hunters. His left eye began blinking
so uncontrollably I had to look away. After listening to more high-pitched murmuring, he demanded, “Open the gates!”

“I don’t have the authority to tell the military men what to do,” Saleem replied. “It is the privilege of the Shah.”

He looked surprised by the words that had just issued from his mouth. Hadn’t Haydar declared himself our leader?

Balamani leaned close. “It is Thursday, which means it is the Takkalu tribe’s turn to guard the Ali Qapu gate. Is Haydar’s head stuffed with rice instead of brains?”

The Takkalu had had a rivalry with the Ostajlu for decades.

Haydar looked pained and said quietly, “I am the rightful shah, and in this time of darkness, I call on God’s protection as his shadow on earth. This meeting is dismissed.”

He stepped off the platform and left the room, escorted by guards and eunuchs. Saleem Khan called an end to the assembly, and then the nobles began clustering together to rally for or against Haydar’s candidacy.

“Do you think he can succeed?” I whispered to Balamani.

He opened his palms and shrugged. “Whatever happens, they might as well lay out the skewers!” he said, looking at the angry noblemen who surrounded us. “Some of these men will choose the wrong candidate and get turned into kabob.”

I grimaced at his awful prediction. Our eyes met, then flicked away. Neither of us had seen such peril in all our years of service.

I rushed back to Pari’s quarters, eager to discover whether she would support Haydar’s bold move. Pari entered some time later, her cheeks as flushed as a dancer after a performance, her black hair poking out of her kerchief at odd angles.

“What happened?”

“Haydar and his mother summoned me and demanded my support. When I demurred, Haydar threatened to imprison me. I bent
low, kissed his feet, and pretended to recognize him as the rightful shah. Only then did he let me go.”

Her eyes widened and she took a deep breath, as if she had just understood the extent of the peril she had escaped.

“Lord of orders, who will receive your support?”

“I don’t know yet.”

I paused to strategize. “If Haydar has many armed followers outside the palace, he may prevail.”

“Go to town and bring me news.”

“How will I get out with all the palace gates blocked by the Takkalu?”

“Majeed will give the head guards some money. They know I am not Haydar’s ally.”

I exited through one of the palace’s side gates—the guard waved me through—and walked toward the main bazaar. On such a warm, sunny day, mothers should have been bargaining for goods and children chirping with pleasure about being outside. But the streets were deserted. When I arrived at the main entrance of the bazaar, its huge wooden doors were bolted shut. By God above! Never in my lifetime had the bazaar been closed on a Thursday.

I rushed to an old, abandoned minaret and climbed its slippery stairs. From the opening once used for the call to prayer, the whole city glittered in the sunlight, its mud brick homes interspersed with mosques, bazaars, and parks. The walled palace grounds dominated the city, resembling a huge garden carpet divided into orchards whose trees and flowers competed for beauty. The northern palace gate was heavily guarded. My eye was drawn to the Ali Qapu’s yellow and white tiled walls at the southern entrance, where hundreds of Takkalu soldiers of the royal bodyguard, along with their allies, stood in formation, their swords, daggers, and bows and arrows at the ready.

Where were Haydar’s supporters? Why had they not come out for their new shah? I went to the home of his uncle, Khakaberi Khan, but saw no activity there, then knocked on the doors of a few other supporters to no avail until I arrived at the home of Hossein Beyg Ostajlu. A large group of men armed with swords and bows were assembling in his courtyard. I saluted a fellow with a scar across
his cheek that flamed red, matching the thick red baton held erect in his turban that proclaimed him as a
qizilbash
loyal to the Safavis.

“What is the delay?”

He scowled. “Who are you?”

“I serve in the harem.”

“Half-man!”

He adjusted his parts to reassure himself that they were still there. Grabbing his sword, he rejoined his fellow soldiers as if I might contaminate him with my condition. I would have liked to see him facing a castrator’s long, sharp knife; then we would know who was more brave.